


Thursday Nights with Bucky Barnes

by Ellessey



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Horny Steve Rogers, Laundry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 14:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellessey/pseuds/Ellessey
Summary: "You're… not Hal," Steve says when the stranger looks at him. He's probably close to twenty-five, the same as Steve. Tall and broad shouldered (not the same as Steve), with a head full of loose, dark brown curls. He's not wearing any kind of sweater, just a short sleeved t-shirt that seems significantly tighter than is necessary. If Steve's shirt were that tight his ribs would be visible."Nope," the man says, leaning forward to rest one hand on the counter and hold the other out to Steve. "Bucky Barnes."--Steve has a comfortable, well-worn routine for his Thursday nights, until the old man who runs the laundromat breaks his hip.Then Steve has Bucky instead.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 48
Kudos: 770





	Thursday Nights with Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers has been frequenting the laundromat nearest to his apartment for going on three years now, and it's as predictable as the rising sun. The washer second from the left doesn't work, ever, but the dryer on the very end works like a dream even though it looks like a rusted heap of garbage. The old man who owns the place has almost definitely never smiled a day in his life, but he likes his coffee black and hot, and Steve tries to bring him one most times he comes in. (He figures in the absence of joy there can at least be caffeine.)

It's always noisy with the clanking of machines that are not, and have probably never been, well oiled, and it smells like mildew and way too many kinds of fabric softener, but Steve likes it. His mom's health is up and down, and his job as a first grade teacher is pure chaos, but this, at least, is predictable. Thursday night at Sal's Suds. 

Steve steps inside, his entrance accompanied by the standard jingle, and looks over at the counter where Hal always sits. (In three years Steve has never been given an explanation for why Hal runs Sal's Suds and not Hal's Suds. Hal doesn't seem like the type to give a shit about alliteration, but who knows.) 

Today though, there's no Hal at the counter. There's no Hal anywhere, and now that Steve is all the way inside, there's no smell of mildew either.

What there is, is a stranger standing behind the counter where Hal would normally be hunched in his chair doing a crossword puzzle. The stranger is not seventy-five years old, not balding, and not wearing an atrocious brown sweater that probably predates Hal himself.

"You're… not Hal," Steve says when the stranger looks at him. He's probably close to twenty-five, the same as Steve. Tall and broad shouldered (not the same as Steve), with a head full of loose, dark brown curls. He's not wearing any kind of sweater, just a short sleeved t-shirt that seems significantly tighter than is necessary. If Steve's shirt were that tight his ribs would be visible. 

"Nope," the man says, leaning forward to rest one hand on the counter and hold the other out to Steve. "Bucky Barnes."

Steve is holding a sack of laundry in one hand, and a piping hot coffee in the other, so he's not sure what Bucky Barnes is hoping for here. He sticks the coffee in the waiting hand. "For Hal," he says.

"I'm not Hal. I thought we covered that."

"Right," Steve says, trying not to be annoyed by the crooked smile Bucky is giving him now. And by the fact that Bucky is _ here, _ and Hal is not, and this is not what Thursday night at Sal's Suds is supposed to be like. "Where is he?"

"He broke his hip," Bucky says with a grimace. "He's a good friend of my folks', and since I'm back in town, I've got laundromat duty. Does it always come with coffee?"

"He broke his _ hip?" _Steve repeats, ignoring everything else. "Is he alright? Does he need anything?"

"He—who even_ are _ you?"

"No one," Steve says, taking a step back, now that he's realized he'd charged right up to the counter. "Just been a customer for a long time."

Bucky takes a step back too, leaning against the row of cabinets behind the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Steve curiously, which is on Steve's list of the top five things he hates. Not the curiosity, just the looking. The problem with being 5'4" is that most men are _ not _ 5'4", and are consequently looking down at him. (And no, this is not why he works with children, but he's not gonna say it isn't a perk.)

"He's doing fine now," Bucky says finally. "His daughter flew in to stay with him, my family and I'll take care of this place, and he'll be back in a few months."

"Okay," Steve says. "Alright, that's good."

Bucky nods, eyebrows still tilted in a quizzical line. 

"Why does it smell weird in here?" Steve asks.

"Why does it smell… clean? You mean?"

"Nevermind," Steve says, shaking his head. There's an unpleasant whiff of bleach in the air, and some other biting chemical scent, but it still smells like fake flowers and oceans and lemons too, and it's not like Steve ever talks to Hal while he's here anyway. He'll just ignore Bucky Barnes and get his laundry done, like every other Thursday.

"Wait, that's it?"

Steve has already turned away from Bucky and started towards the third machine from the left, which is the best machine, but he sighs and looks over his shoulder. "What?"

"You come in here and act like you own the place, gripe about the fact that it smells _ clean, _ and then just…" He makes a hand gesture that is probably supposed to mimic the way Steve just cut him off. It _ was _ maybe a little rude, but Steve is extremely polite the entire day long, and he doesn't know this guy. And he really doesn't like that old Hal broke his hip and now his laundromat smells wrong. 

"Sorry," Steve says. "You can keep the coffee."

Bucky looks down at it, carefully prying off the lid and scrunching his nose when steam billows into his face as he sniffs. "Oh God," he says. "It's Hal coffee."

"Because it was for Hal," Steve says. And then because he's unable to resist throwing Bucky's earlier teasing back at him, "I thought we already covered that."

"It smells like tar."

"Then don't drink it."

"I can see why you and Hal get along," Bucky says.

Steve blinks at him. He and Hal don't _ get along, _ they just peacefully co-exist, and he doesn't like the implication that he's on par with a grumpy old man. Especially since Natasha calls him that at least three times a week, if he's dumb enough to go on one of his rants around her about any one of the _ countless _ ways this planet is literally falling apart around them. 

"I'm going to do my laundry now."

"Okay," Bucky says pleasantly, as if he hasn't just called Steve out twice in as many minutes. "The second one is free," he adds, just before Steve can set his bag on the third washer.

"It doesn't work. Never has."

"Does now," Bucky says.

Steve wants to pick the second machine up and throw it at him. He visualizes this briefly, reminds himself that on a bad day he can struggle just to get the dryer door open, and then takes a deep breath. 

"I'm fine here," he says. 

"Suit yourself!"

Steve decides the ignoring of Bucky Barnes will begin now. There are two rows of chairs in between all the machines, lined up with their backs to each other, and after Steve gets his wash going he takes a seat in the farthest one from Bucky. Facing away from him. He feels less mature than his six and seven year old students.

It makes it even worse that they're the only ones in the building. Most of Hal's patrons leave as soon as their machines start chugging, returning just before they finish. Steve always stays though, because… well because even if he and Hal don't actually talk, he feels like Hal ought to have a little quiet company sometimes. Steve always brings a book with him and sits in the chair closest to the counter. And if Hal happens to hit a tough clue in his puzzle he'll read it out to Steve without looking at him, and Steve will answer without putting his book down. 

They are, Steve realizes with a wave of discontented clarity, just steps away from being two old men playing chess on a porch.

He doesn't have any more time to ruminate over this sad realization, because Bucky, unlike Hal in every goddamn way, has not stayed behind the counter. He's clunking around somewhere out of Steve's line of sight, banging and rattling and sloshing something, and then wheeling a big yellow bucket with a ragged mop propped up in it, right in front of Steve.

"Just lift your feet when I pass you, huh?" Bucky says.

"What… _ why _ are you mopping right now?"

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't that normally be done after you close? When there's no one here who needs to lift their feet?"

Bucky sets the mop on the floor with a wet smack. He's somehow splashed water on his own shirt already, and it doesn't seem possible for it to be pressed any closer to his skin than it was before but… well there it is. 

"Pretty sure it wasn't normally done here at all, actually."

That's probably completely accurate, but it never bothered Steve, and certainly didn't bother Hal.

"Do you have, like, a cleaning thing?" Steve asks, because he's already been nothing but rude since he walked in here, so he may as well stay the course.

"Do you have a name?"

Oh God. Why can't Bucky Barnes just sit his toned ass (goddammit Steve didn't mean to notice but Bucky's jeans _ really _ fit him) down behind the counter and not do this?

"No," Steve says. "My parents tried something new when I was born. Just gave me a number."

Bucky narrows his eyes, but his full lips slowly curve up. Steve can just _ tell _ he's about to be annoying. "You know, if we put one of Hal's sweaters on you and stuck you in his chair, it'd be like—"

"It's Steve," Steve says, cutting him off. "My name's Steve, and I've had a long day, and I'd just like to read this book until my things are clean and I can go home. Is that okay with you?"

There's a painfully long pause while Bucky studies him with an expression Steve can't quite read, but it seems much more positive than it should given what Steve just said. 

"Sure, Steve," Bucky agrees, finally. "Sorry to bother you."

"You didn't—"

"No, no, just pretend I'm not here. I'll work around you."

Steve exhales heavily, but Bucky has already turned away to start sliding the mop across the floor in precise, practiced motions. Steve wants to huff again because it's not like his book is that great, and now there's this ridiculously well-built man in front of him, with every muscle in his back on display while he works.

So on top of everything else, now Steve's horny. Grumpy-horny, which is the worst.

"I'm just gonna—I'll get out of your way," Steve says, shoving his book in his backpack and getting to his feet while Bucky and his mop are still a few feet away.

"Okay," Bucky says simply. Steve deflates a bit, making him aware that he was maybe anticipating a bit more. An argument. Some teasing, maybe. These are not things he normally expects on his evenings at Sal's Suds.

He slouches out of the laundromat, setting a timer on his phone so he can be back before the wash finishes and not risk pissing someone off. One quick glance over his shoulder shows him Bucky still mopping, dark hair tumbling over his eyes as he leans over to really work the mop in between the last machine and the wall. 

It's… it _ is _ kind of nice, how hard he's working. Hal may not care much about cleanliness, but it probably isn't a bad thing to actually get all those layers of grime cleaned up, even if Bucky is clearly using toxic products to get it done. And it's admirable, Steve supposes, that Bucky is taking care of it on his own initiative, when he could be sitting listlessly in Hal's chair, melting his brain in front of his phone like everyone else in their generation. 

By the time Steve's timer has chimed and he's walked back to Sal's Suds, he's feeling slightly abashed. He resolves to be polite to Bucky, at least, while he gets his things into the dryer. It's not Bucky's fault that he's beautiful as hell, or that Steve is practically a foot shorter than him, and resentful that he's internally drooling over Bucky while Bucky probably just thinks he's _ cute, _ at the very best. 

It's the story of his life, and according to Natasha, the reason he does his level best to make his personality as _ not cute _ as possible. 

(This isn't true though; it isn't intentional. Steve was just born as sour as a pickle, and his mom says she loves him the way he is, so it's _ fine. _ It's fine.)

When Steve enters the laundromat the bell jingles again, and Bucky looks down at him from where he's perched on a ladder, reaching up to wipe a wet rag over the goddamn light fixtures.

"_Why?" _ Steve asks, all his resolve to be polite lost in the face of how completely unnecessary this is. Especially with the way it's made Bucky's shirt ride up and expose just how low slung his jeans are. Steve can see the entire band of his boxers, _ and _ the sharp angles of his hipbones. 

"Steve," Bucky says, lowering his arm—and for better or worse, his shirt—and taking a step down the ladder. "I'm beginning to think you have a problem with either me, or cleaning, and I don't know which one would be worse."

"Wh—what?" Steve asks stupidly, letting the door fall shut behind him. There are no dryers rumbling now, so the remaining customers must have come back to pick up their things while Steve was gone, and now it's just him and Bucky again, in a much too quiet space. 

"Well, think about it," Bucky goes on. He's off the ladder now, walking towards Steve with a lazy, graceful gait. "Either you hate cleaning, which is… I mean it's weird, Steve. You know mold can actually be life threatening, right?"

"I don't—I don't hate cleaning!" Steve sputters. "And I know the dangers of mold, I'm not an idiot. Do _ you _ know the dangers of the laundry list of chemicals in that shit you're inhaling while you clean, though?"

Bucky, inexplicably, is beaming at Steve. "Was that intentional?" he asks.

"_What?" _

"_Laundry list? _ Are you being punny, Steve?"

"Oh my God," Steve says. He was not being punny, he fucking hates the word punny, and he hates—

"Are you worried about my health?"

"I'm worried about the health of our _ planet," _ Steve says emphatically. 

"Hm." Bucky makes a disappointed face. "So that's the thing, that's what I was saying. Either you have a problem with cleaning, which you say you don't, or… you have a problem with me."

"Why would you even care?"

"You mean apart from generally not wanting to inspire hate in people who have known me for less than an hour?"

"Aside from that, yeah," Steve says, doing his level best not to be charmed by the way Bucky's smile has gone a little crooked again. It is _ not _ charming, it's just, it's…

"Aside from that," Bucky repeats, "you're pretty damn hot, Steve, and it would suck if I didn't even have a chance because you _ already _ hate me. You haven't even let me give you a reason yet."

"You..." Steve says, and follows it up with absolutely nothing. Thursday night is beyond derailed at this point, and Steve has lost his bearings entirely. _ Hot? What? _ "What are you… what?"

"Well I'm not perfect," Bucky says, completely missing the source of Steve's confusion. "If you end up hating me down the road then—"

"No, God, that's not what I… _ down the road?" _

How is there a road now? Steve just came here to do his _ laundry, _ not to embark on a journey with some blue-eyed god of cleaning who just descended on Steve's life out of fucking nowhere. A guy whose jawline alone sets him in a league Steve couldn't even hope to claw his way up to. 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "You know, like, after a few dates."

"Are you… are you asking me out?" 

"Of course not," Bucky says, and Steve feels like a door was just slammed right in his face. "That would be unprofessional. And my odds of a positive response seem really low right now anyway."

The door opens back up, just a crack, and Steve's mouth is open too, around words he can't pull together. He knows he's making his _ confused baby face _ as Natasha calls it, but he cannot help it.

"Unprofessional," he manages, after an embarrassing pause during which Bucky just looks at him benignly. Only the way he fidgets with the rag in his hands suggests he may be feeling some of the same nerves as Steve.

"Hal probably never hits on his customers."

"You're… not Hal," Steve says. Not to beat a dead horse, but it needed to be said. Again.

"Well, that's true."

"I'm not _ really _ your customer."

"Maybe also true if you squint, but you've definitely looked like you want to scratch my eyes out every time I've spoken to you, so—"

"I'm not great with change," Steve admits. _ Why _ he admits that, he has no fucking clue.

(Alright he does, he knows. He's human, okay, and if Bucky Barnes finds him even a _ fraction _ as attractive as Steve finds him…)

"Me neither," Bucky says. Steve almost calls bullshit, but then Bucky keeps going. "It feels so weird being back home, adjusting to being an adult here. Might even be making me a little obsessive with the cleaning because…" He shrugs, holding up the dirty rag with a sheepish smile. "I dunno, I gotta do _ something, _ you know?"

For the first time since Steve walked in here and saw Not Hal, all of the weird irritation and tension he's been feeling settle into something unobtrusive. Baseline levels of Steve-ness. Bucky is biting his lip now, twisting the rag between his hands again and looking downright… human. Not a cleaning god at all, just a guy who's in an old place that's new to him again, and trying to find his way.

"Why did you come back?" Steve asks. "Where've you been?"

"Went to college in California. My older sister lives out there and I wanted to be closer to her, but… I finished. You know, inevitably," he laughs at himself and Steve smiles. He was a little terrified too, when he'd earned his degree and had to actually go out and use it. "And the shop I was working in closed down."

"Shop?"

"Repair shop," Bucky says. "Cars. Bikes."

"Ah," Steve says. Explains Bucky's deft, busy fingers. And the fixing of the second machine from the left.

"And my dad's getting older, he could use some help in _ his _shop, once Hal doesn't need me. I'd kinda wanted to do my own thing, but..."

"Family needs you," Steve says when Bucky trails off. He gets it. He loves his mom with his whole goddamn soul, but it's still hard sometimes. The worrying, and the medications, and the drives to and from appointments that don't seem to do any good half the time. Choosing a job that gives him consecutive weeks off in the summer to spend with her; choosing a school as close to his mom's place as he could get, in case she needs him suddenly. He doesn't mind the sacrifices, not at all, but he still feels them sometimes.

"Yeah," Bucky says. He's still got the same strong jaw and broad shoulders that have been intimidating (and turning on) Steve all night, of course, but right now all Steve can see is the dimple in Bucky's chin and the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"I know the feeling," Steve tells him.

Bucky smiles softly. It looks… pretty nice on him.

"I only kind of wanted to scratch your eyes out," Steve says. Starting small. "You came out of nowhere, and you _ have _ cleaned an obsessive amount."

"I have," Bucky agrees. 

"And you've made me leave my laundry in the washer past the buzzer. That's terrible laundromat etiquette."

"There's no one here, though," Bucky points out.

Steve is very aware. 

"Fine," he says. "I'll let it slide."

"Yeah? You know you're hard to read, Steve. I still don't know what my odds are."

"You don't seem like the type that's too afraid to take risks," Steve says. Meanwhile his heart is pounding like a goddamn drum, and he's pretty sure he's sweating, too. If Bucky hadn't twisted the rag in his hands into oblivion, Steve would be irritated all over again at being the only one affected here. 

"_Calculated _ risks. I don't know if you're aware, but you're a little intense, Steve. Are you like a high stakes environmental attorney or something? I can just see you making people cry in a courtroom."

"I'm… an elementary school teacher," Steve says.

Bucky barks out a laugh, then he just looks at Steve, waiting for him to say it was a joke. When this doesn't happen, an impossibly bright smile spreads across his face.

"You're not kidding."

"I don't make my students cry," Steve says quickly. And he _ doesn't. _ He loves them to death, and he's at his absolutely most pleasant when he's at work. If the stacks of drawings and homemade cards declaring him the "best teecher ever" mean anything, then he thinks his students are pretty fond of him, too. "I really don't."

"I believe you. I'm just… you just keep getting better."

Steve has been an unapologetic asshole all night. He's scrawny and perpetually irritated looking. He's basically a real live troll, how the fuck can any of this seem _ good _ to Bucky?

"How's that?" Steve asks. 

"You're... how are you asking that?" Bucky says, sounding genuinely baffled. "You're gorgeous, you teach little kids, save the planet, befriend curmudgeonly old men—"

"Berate strangers for cleaning too much..."

Bucky grins and shrugs his big, perfect shoulders. Steve is fighting such a losing battle here. They're standing so close together now that he has to look up, which he _ hates, _ as a rule. But Bucky's pecs are at eye level, and then the stubble on his jaw, the little shadows below his broad cheekbones, and that lock of hair curling over his forehead are all happening above that, so… what the hell. Looking up isn't so terrible. 

"Well, what's your risk assessment then?" Steve asks, trying to sound like he doesn't care either way.

"I feel like there's a very real chance you're fucking with me right now, and then you'll report me to Hal for harrassing you."

"Oh my God," Steve says. "I'm not _ that _ bad."

"You keep yelling at me!"

"_I'm not yelling!" _

Bucky smiles and doesn't repeat himself. Steve, of course, has just yelled at him.

"It's pretty important that I keep my eyes intact, and don't let Hal down, so in the interest of the greater good it's probably best that I don't—"

"Greater good, my ass," Steve says, because his patience is up. Either Bucky is the one fucking with him and Steve will never be able to come here again, or no one is fucking with anyone, beyond Bucky just being a shit, and this all works out. 

There doesn't seem like any better way to find out than to stretch up on his toes, yank Bucky closer by the collar of his stupid tight shirt, and stop that never ending chatter by pressing their lips together hard.

A good three seconds pass, during which it feels like there definitely could have been a better way, because Bucky is silent and still and this is, objectively, a really terrible kiss. 

And then it isn't. Because Bucky becomes fluid again, his big hands coming up to cup Steve's face, his lips going soft and open under Steve's. He stoops a little lower so Steve doesn't have to stretch so much, and hums after Steve pulls back just enough to try again, fitting his lips to Bucky's with less force and a fraction more finesse. 

When they part again Bucky smiles at him with red lips. He's still holding Steve's face, and Steve has his hands on Bucky's hips that are stupidly slim, because of course this asshole has an unbelievable waist to shoulder ratio.

"You kiss like a bulldog," Bucky says. 

Steve laughs. He's always appreciated honesty, and he knows he can do better anyway, when he's not half wanting to punch Bucky in the face. If that's ever a state of being he manages to achieve. "You're lucky I didn't bite you."

Bucky's eyebrows go up. "Well now I'm feeling like I missed out."

So. That's a good thing to keep in mind, for _ down the road _ as Bucky says.

Steve licks his lips, savoring the new, unfamiliar taste on them for a moment, then shoves Bucky away by his hips. 

"I need to dry my laundry. You need to research eco-conscious cleaners if you insist on messing this place up with your industriousness."

"I'm getting whiplash."

"I didn't push you that hard."

"You're a figurative whirlwind, Steve, did you know that?" 

Steve has definitely been called worse, and the way Bucky says that, with his cheeks lit up bright and his t-shirt rumpled and stretched a little in the front from Steve's fists, makes it sound like not a bad thing at all. 

"Too much of a risk?" he asks, but Bucky is already shaking his head.

"Not for me. Let me buy you dinner after I close up. You can lecture me about eco-consciousness and bite me all you want."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I can't bite you in a restaurant," Steve says, realizing before the words are all the way out that Bucky's well aware of this fact. He's giving Steve a million watt smile. 

"Then maybe you should just take me home."

Steve cannot believe this is his life. He can't believe this is where Thursday night at Sal's Suds has ended up. He is going to bite the _ shit _out of Bucky Barnes.

For now, though, he bites back his smile and rolls his eyes. They still have an entire dryer cycle to get through.

"Maybe," he says. "I have a book to read."

"Right, right," Bucky says agreeably as he stoops to retrieve the rag he dropped when Steve kissed him. "Well, you know where to find me."

"Sure," Steve says, stepping past him to finally get his wet clothes out of the wash. 

To both of their credit, he does get the dryer going, and Bucky gets the _ Open _ sign flipped around to _ Closed, _ before Steve finds himself perched on the second washer from the left. Even if Bucky hadn't fixed it, it works really, spectacularly well at getting his lips at just the right level to find Bucky's again. 

Steve has spent a lot of time here in Sal's Suds over the years, and he's enjoyed himself, he really has. The comforting, predictable scents and sounds; the companionship of a crotchety man who is apparently Steve's kindred spirit; it's all been good. Steve has never had any complaints.

But.

Currently he has Bucky's hips wedged between his thighs, Bucky's hair tight in his hand, the soft skin of his throat pinched between his teeth, and goddamn… this is something Steve could get used to. _ Thursday nights with Bucky Barnes _ has a real nice ring to it. 

And maybe Friday nights, too. And Saturdays, and—

"_Steve," _Bucky whines, his head still tipped back by Steve's grip in his hair. "Why'd you stop? I'm—"

He loses whatever he was going to say to a gasp as Steve renews his efforts, directing all of his focus to Bucky's pulse under his tongue, and Bucky's hands all over his back. 

Change, Steve decides—before his higher thought processes give way entirely to _ Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—_is not so hard to take after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find my other stucky fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=110293&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Ellessey), and can find me continually singing their praises (and Sebastian Stan's) on twitter at [elliebbarnes](https://twitter.com/elliebbarnes).


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